The first time Greg chooses a restaurant for their weekly dinners-turned-dates, he’s more than a little nervous. His palms are warm and sweaty and he’s suddenly conscious of the coffee stain on his shirt collar—was that from today’s second or third coffee?—and bloody hell, how long has it been since he last polished his shoes?
Greg knows he shouldn’t be nervous. After all, Mycroft is lovely company. He’s surprisingly witty and more than capable in holding his own across a broad range of topics, from the internal workings of the Met to the football game played last Saturday. Greg has to admit it’s a nice change to be around a Holmes whose manners rival the Queen’s. But Mycroft has also always picked the venue, always ordered for them in advance—there’s hardly ever a menu on the table, and in the rare occasion that there is, it’s not in English—and to be honest, Greg isn’t sure if his choice will be up to Mycroft’s standards. Still, they’re dating, and Greg’s not about to let Mycroft call all the shots.
He’s backpedalling furiously when Mycroft slides into the chair opposite him, and he mutters a brief greeting before focusing all his attention on the menu in the hopes of hiding his nerves.
A few minutes pass and Mycroft is unusually silent. Greg’s equally scared and curious, so when he gathers enough courage to risk a glance, he’s definitely not expecting Mycroft to be staring at him, searching his face intently, and fuck it all if he’s cowering under the intensity of Mycroft’s gaze.
“I-Is there something on my face?”
“Yes, actually,” Mycroft chuckles. “I was not aware that you wear glasses, Gregory.”
“I, er, just got them recently. Old age and all that, you know,” Greg says. He knows he’s waving his hands around meaninglessly in a half-hearted attempt to shift Mycroft’s gaze elsewhere, yet Mycroft’s sharp eyes stay trained on Greg’s.
“Are you hungry?” Mycroft changes the topic so quickly that Greg thinks he might get whiplash.
“I mean,” Mycroft leans over slightly and his voice is pitched so low that Greg can feel his toes curling in his shoes. “That your bespectacled appearance does things to me, my dear Gregory, and I will have you over this table, glasses and all, if you do not allow me to take you home right now.”
“Really, Lestrade?” Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“What is it now, Sherlock?”
“It’s obvious you don’t need your glasses now; we’re outside on a case, and you have presbyopia, for goodness’ sake.” Sherlock pauses to give him a brief once-over. “So, you’re clearly trying to make a fashion statement of some sort—and failing at it too, unless you insist on being an advocate for terrible fashion, especially with those great, clunky excuses for shoes—or someone likes it when you wear glasses, and you’re trying to get their attention.”
“Now look, maybe I just wanted to take a closer look at the evidence.”
“Nonsense. You’ve only had your glasses for a month, and you’re definitely not in the habit of using them very often, judging by their condition.”
Sherlock takes the silence as confirmation and steps closer to Greg.
“So, a lover, perhaps. Someone who appreciates high-quality goods, if the smell of your shampoo and the scarf you’re using to hide those bite marks is anything to go by—it’s failing spectacularly, by the way.”
Greg’s not sure whether to be mortified or amused by the accuracy of Sherlock’s deductions.
“Although, I don’t understand why the smell of your shampoo is very reminiscent of Myc—oh, ugh, delete! Delete! I did not need to know that my brother has an unhealthy penchant for glasses and my inspector. Delete immediately!”
As Sherlock stalks off with his coat billowing behind him, Greg turns in the direction of the closest CCTV camera, grinning widely while pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
An unhealthy penchant for glasses, indeed.